


Dams Break

by applecameron



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the dam breaks, Arthur is kneeling on the floor of his hotel room in his boxers and an old gray t-shirt, pulling socks out of his suitcase to lay out his clothes for tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When the dam breaks, Arthur is kneeling on the floor of his hotel room in his boxers and an old gray t-shirt, pulling socks out of his suitcase to lay out his clothes for tomorrow. He brushes his fingers over the zipped pocket that has one of Mal's scarves in it, that still smells of her perfume, and that's it, that's the moment, the moment he _sees_. 

Dom is hopelessly, helplessly, in love with Mal, living or dead. He doesn't love Arthur, or even see him, anymore, really. He doesn't know how that happened. If he were feeling charitable, he'd chalk it all up to grief, but he wonders if Dom's obsession with Mal has always been too extreme since the very first, expanding to all the edges of his heart so there has never been any room for Arthur, as Mal's protege, as Dom's friend, as anything. And now he is only a placeholder for Mal. Being on the run lets Dom continue to be as obsessed with her as ever. _Arthur_ lets him continue to be as obsessed with her as ever.

As long as Arthur is with him, as long as he has Arthur as his point, constant reminder of Mal, in his bed, dark hair like Mal's, dark eyes like Mal's, dripping French in his ear like Mal. Mal's real shade isn't haunting Dom's dreams, it's haunting Dom's reality.

It's _Arthur_. Arthur is enabling all of this madness, every day he stays with Dom, every night he visits Dom's bed.

_Break_. Arthur breaking comes with a sound, a loud cry of anguish as he holds a pair of socks in one hand and touches a zippered pocket of a suitcase with another.

As long as he stays by Dom's side, which he promised Mal he would do, he has a chance to get him back to the children. Which he promised her he would do.

A small voice in his head wonders if that's even the best thing for them. They have a stable life now, with stable adults, not people on the fringes of crime, or worse. And no obsessed parents. That little voice sounds an awful lot like Eames.

And it's been so long, so long, and he's failing his vow. And fading. All he can think to do now is cry into his suitcase with socks in his hand.

Someone's knocking on his door, but Arthur just puts his hands down in the neatly packed clothing - never unpack fully when you're a criminal, leave no traces, be no one, he's so tired of being no one - and says, "no," hiccuping like a child does, _no, I don't want it_. 

He can't stop crying, hunched over his suitcase, crying over the tidy folds in his life that he made with his own two hands.

Eames' voice sounds, not in his head, this time. Eames' hands, touching. Concerned. "Arthur. Are you hurt? I heard you yelling."

"No." he still has the socks in his hand and he puts them in their little corner of the case and then tells Eames because Dom's not there, climbing on top of his own clothes, the only things left of himself he still has, "no, you can't have anymore." He's shaking, full of things he has no names for. "I don't want to do it anymore." _No._

He's got himself mostly wedged into the four corners of the case, and that's enough, if the tears would stop sometime soon that would be nice, but they're _his_ tears, and they're going to stay his, dropping on his clothes and drying there, forever and ever.

"Forever and ever," he repeats to himself, nodding, as Eames pets at his face and arm, says something to him that passes him by. He wants to stay curled up on top of his things, just like that, with Eames stroking his face. Like a cat. He would be a good cat, he's well-groomed and lethal and fits in suitcases, he thinks irrationally.

Eames smiles, like he said that out loud. Maybe he said it all out loud. It doesn't matter. It's his. It's his to say if he wants to.

"Very true, darling."

"I don't want any more." He tells himself. Or Eames. Or somebody.

"You don't have to, darling." Eames petting him feels so very nice.

"I'm finished."

"Yes, darling."

"I want to go home." He closes his eyes.

"Yes, darling."

Eames is being very nice. Wearing his nice cologne, too. He can't remember the name but it's the one he likes on Eames even though he doesn't like it on himself.

"Thank you, darling."

Maybe he sleeps for a bit after that, he opens his eyes later and the lights are still on and he can't see the time on the clock. Eames is stretched out on his side on the floor, head pillowed on one arm, his other hand tangled up in Arthur's. His eyes open when Arthur reaches out from his little suitcase-bed to touch the fabric of Eames' shirt, and he scoots closer, leaning up on one arm, his free hand stroking through Arthur's hair. If Arthur were a cat, he might purr at the caress.

"Hullo, pet. How do you feel?"

"Cried out. I think. I'm not sure what else."

"Well, there's no rush to label things." Eames tells him, fingers still in his hair. Arthur blinks and thinks he should be embarrassed, having a nervous breakdown in front of Eames, but Eames has a way of making the surprising seem, well, normal, somehow. "How do you feel about moving to the bed?"

Arthur gives it careful consideration. He's kind of comfortable where he is, but his bare feet are a little cold. And, "the bed's far away."

He doesn't know why Eames is looking at him so fondly. "I could help you. You could warm your feet."

"Okay."

Eames helps him up, and into bed, and Arthur curls up under his ministrations, like a cat, or a child, and soaks in someone else's caring for a while. Once he's warm, Eames slips away - "only for a moment, I promise" - to fetch a glass of water for Arthur to drink, then slips under the covers with him and holds Arthur firmly around the waist. It makes him feel cherished, a little.

"You should always feel cherished, pet."


	2. Patch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

He still doesn't feel like himself. It's daylight, and he's probably long overdue somewhere, when Arthur wakes up, a hundred broken pieces inside, no doubt clanking together when he moves.

He heaves himself up, anyway, with a grunt and a mental _clank clank clank_ , because that's what he does. Eames wakes with him, and stretches, his own t-shirt riding up to show the muscles of his stomach.

Socks. In his suitcase. And the rest of today's clothes, already laid out. And a shower and shave and a splash of his cologne and his to-do list for the day, scouting a prospective job.

Eames rises and pads barefoot after him.

Day Arthur is nowhere to be found. Certainly not in his suitcase, he'd remember packing his day self, his capable self, in his case. Right now, it's just broken Arthur, in a hotel room, wondering how he's going to make it through the day by himself.

Eames crouches down on the floor and puts his hand on the things in Arthur's suitcase, as if putting his hand there will hold Arthur still. "Darling, you're not alone. Listen to me. You need to get away from Cobb. Please."

"I think -", he starts but doesn't finish. He doesn't know what he thinks. Thinking takes energy he doesn't have. Thinking about himself takes energy he hasn't had since Mal died.

"Darling." Eames hands him a cellphone. It's Arthur's. "Look how many messages there aren't."

He takes the phone. He looks. No texts from Dom last night, wanting him to come over for the night. He didn't, every night, but Dom never asked him to. It was always Arthur, taking the initiative.

No texts from Dom this morning, either, wondering where he was, wasn't he up yet, did he want breakfast or was he eating at the hotel. Or anything at all. Just. Silence.

Eames had heard him crying and came to check. To make sure he wasn't dead, dying, anything at all.

"You're not real to him, darling. Not any more." Eames looks so sad, like he's saying something that he knows will anger Arthur but he has to say it anyway.

He wonders, pulling his socks out of the suitcase and looking at them, how much of all this, all of this with Dom, the following around the world, loving him with no hope of return, the sex that probably neither of them really enjoys, the everything, has been Mal haunting him, since her death. Has been Arthur, clinging to her. "I think. I did this." Made himself a supporting character in Dom's story, so he wouldn't have to let her go. He feels at the fabric of his socks with his thumb.

It was past time to let Mal go. He has to make himself real again.

"Oh, pet." Eames' hands are on his and his socks, then cupping his face. It's not an intrusion. Not at all. "You are very real to me."

He feels an almost child-like faith that Eames can fix it, the proverbial "it". If he just asks him to. "How…" he clears his throat. "What do I do, now?"

"Come with me."

Arthur does.


	3. Escape

Step one: evacuate the room.

"Come with me." 

Miraculously, Arthur does. 

Step two: evacuate the bloody city, better yet, the country. 

Getting Arthur out of the hotel without encountering Dom made Eames feel a bit like the farmer trying to cross the river with the fox and the goose and the bag of corn, like in the riddle. He kept one hand on Arthur almost continuously, for fear he'd bolt. 

His predicament was made vastly easier, as so many predicaments were, he mused, counting out bills, via the liberal application of money. 

Time was of the essence. Eames needed to get both of them out and continue shaping their escape path before Arthur's sense of responsibility reared its head and dragged them both down to earth. Eames reconciled himself to the likelihood they would end this adventure having had a very nice impromptu vacation, after which Arthur would go back to torturing himself with Dom. Eames sincerely hoped otherwise. 

In short order, with the aid of various well-paid hotel staff, Eames and Arthur were successfully packed into his car and on their way, with Dom none the wiser. 

And he was so very quiet, Arthur was, looking almost dazed even after climbing into the car, except for after about 100km, when he leaned forward and pressed his hands to his eyes, and said, "Mal" in a thick voice. 

Eames risked putting his hand on Arthur's bare neck, and let him cry. 


End file.
